It's customary to say that Whitelock's First City Luncheon Bar, which originally opened in 1715, hasn't changed at all over the decades; that while the great city of Leeds has been turned inside out, paved over, encased in glass, polished, scuffed and re-polished, the old pub has remained down its narrow alley off Briggate, an untouched island of the past. It's not entirely true. The fag smoke, which I recall from my days in the city as a student, sitting like the morning mist on the seashore, has gone. It means you can see the emetic swirl of the carpets properly, which is not necessarily a good thing. British pub carpets, of which Whitelock's is a prime example, are designed to cover a multitude of sins and by so being, become a sin in themselves.

Everything else, apart from the sturdy waitresses with arms built for carrying, remains from when I first started going there almost 30 years ago. Back then we went on Sundays for a lunch engineered to soak up whatever had happened on the Saturday, and frankly because there wasn't that much in the way of competition. With a couple of noble exceptions – hello Salvo's, still going strong – Leeds eating in the 80s was less a leisure pursuit than something health professionals would have classed as a risky lifestyle choice. It was a city then of gnarly bistros where the word "lasagne" was used as a threat and of places that were determined to prove the utilitarian appeal of the deep-fat fryer.

Back then we were so short on options I used to think the bacon sandwiches from the Doubles Bar at the back of Leeds Student Union were quality, and would trade up from Thunderbird to the Yugoslav Laski Riesling when I was feeling a little flush. It says much for the scarcity of options that one of the few places we regarded as safe and reliable and genuinely good in Leeds then was a kebab shop. Theo's Charcoal Grill, opposite the university, did fine things to hunks of lamb over burning coals. Cue emails from former students for whom the mere mention of the word "Theo's" is more powerful than Proust's soggy madeleine.

Whitelock's was something other. It was a place of safety, and it is hugely reassuring to see it physically unchanged. The narrow space is a ludicrous confection of Victorian and Edwardian leather plump and brass polish, of engraved mirror and the sort of tiling the Islington middle classes would go on the game to pay for. It was once a haunt of Sir John Betjeman, Peter O'Toole and Keith Waterhouse and is, apparently, mentioned alongside Harry's Bar of Venice in Great Bars of the World. Quite right, too. Once upon a time Leeds had a bohemian set. This was where they came.

But none of that is a guarantee of survival. It has been through rough times recently, owned by various concerns which didn't care for its heritage and tried to turn it into a wine bar or enforce identikit menus upon it. Back in the day, Whitelock's was famed for its roasts and its gravy and its Yorkshire puddings, which were so big and bronzed and crisp, posh ladies from Headingley could have worn them as hats. It is that curved, buckled and inflated pudding which comes to mind whenever I think of my time there so many years ago.

Whitelock's has now been taken over by a company run by a chap called Ed Mason, who also discovered it while a student in the city in the 80s and who has a good record of running proper pubs which put craft beers to the fore. On Sundays they are doing roasts once more, and if a weekday meal early in the new regime is anything to go by, they are serious about their food without being preachy about it. It's a smart menu that mentions Yorkshire ingredients without fetishising them, and bends the knee to the pub environment – there are pies, there is fish and chips, and a sticky toffee pudding – without being theme park.

For example the starters, which were the clear winners, included a spiced tian of white and brown crabmeat, one of the prime ingredients from the North Yorkshire coast nearby, on mandolined mango with a smear of chilli salsa. The Headingley lady in her Yorkshire-pudding hat would have been dismayed, but I liked it very much. Even better, in that I wished I'd ordered them, were seared discs of black pudding with fragments of smoky pancetta, apple crisps, a perfectly poached egg and a sprightly dressing with a little maple syrup to soften the porky edges.

A main course warm salad of chicken and local chorizo was fighting desperately against the notion that it was girl's food. It looked like half the bird had been thrown in there, with a couple of leaves to protect its modesty. It was completely unfinishable. Ditto the huge mound of good mash that came with a hunk of pork belly. The meat had proper tooth-breaking crackling, though could have done with an extra hour in the oven, and the gravy was over-sweetened, but these issues can be sorted. I could have snoozed on that mash, and given the size of the portions, almost needed to. I would not have been the first journalist to have slumped, comatose, on the benches. A crème brûlée with orange segments and quenelles of a milk-chocolate mousse with a slow-building back kick of chilli heat were more than serviceable.

Pricing is exceptionally keen. Starters and desserts are around a fiver and no main is over £12, with the majority at around £9. But then this place is clearly determined to be much more the word "pub" than the word "gastro". There is, for example, nothing as fancy and mannered as waitress service – all orders are placed at the bar, which is as it should be. The wine list is tiny; the beers, many of them local, much more the point. What really matters is that Whitelock's is in safe hands and won't become a museum piece. It lives on. I, for one, am delighted.